Just a quick post about the north door at Le Mans Cathedral. It’s hard not to be quite impressed about the architecture and perspective here. I’m not a student of medieval architecture, but those are clean lines with no unnecessary faffing about being added to the whole arrangement. There’s some evidence of former wall paintings still visible which would have made it look a little more artistic, but bearing in mind that this is one of the more minor entrances to the cathedral, it was worth pausing to look at. And, also, it gave me a chance to cool down as it was too hot.
Although on the subject of perspective, the whole cathedral is beautiful and seems perfectly proportioned.
The Ascension Window in Le Mans Cathedral is rather lovely, but the guidebook told me that it was not simply another attractive piece of medieval stained glass. Dating from the beginning of the twelfth century, it is regarded as one of the oldest stained-glass windows still occupying its original place within a religious building, making it one of the most important surviving examples of early stained glass in France and indeed Europe. Only the two central sections of the original composition survive, showing the Virgin Mary and the Apostles watching Christ ascend into Heaven, although the figure of Christ itself has been lost. The window has therefore survived for roughly nine centuries while retaining enough of its original imagery to remain intelligible, which given the number of wars, arguments, drunken residents and the like is all really quite impressive.
Later abstract panels were added by Max Ingrand in 1956, allowing the medieval fragments to remain displayed as part of a complete window. The window is therefore not entirely medieval, but it is very much a survivor, preserving enough of its original imagery, colour and setting to give an impression of what the medieval worshippers would have seen. Given that I thought it was quite impressive, and I’ve visited Greggs so I know decadence, it must have been seen as really quite the thing at the time.
Standing quietly beside Le Mans Cathedral is a monument that makes even the oldest parts of the church seem like relatively recent additions. The Pierre Saint-Julien is a prehistoric standing stone, or menhir, erected during the Neolithic period around five thousand years ago. It originally stood elsewhere in Le Mans before being moved to its present position in 1778 after its original site was destroyed.
In the photo, it’s that lump of rock in the bottom left and I didn’t take a better photo at the time as I thought that it was a weathered statue of limited interest. Some impressive archaeological skills on display there…. Over the centuries the stone has acquired a variety of names and legends, including the Pierre au Lait, the Stone of Blood and Gargantua’s Stone, reflecting the layers of folklore that have accumulated around it.
I think it’s rather lovely that at some stage, someone thought they needed to put this historic stone somewhere, so they popped it in the corner of one of France’s great cathedrals.
The beautifully named Cathedral of Saint-Julien is like me, very delicate and subtle. This building very much towers above the medieval streets and is part of the Cité Plantagenêt. It’s one of the finest cathedrals in France and it is dedicated to Saint Julian of Le Mans, traditionally regarded as the city’s first bishop during the third or fourth century. When building the cathedral in the early thirteenth century, the church got the permission of the King to move the city walls to ensure that their new structure surprised and delighted with its size. There are also strong links with the Plantagenets, as Geoffrey and Matilda were married here in 1128 and the baptism of Henry II (the English King between 1154 and 1189) took place in 1133.
I spent quite some time meandering around the cathedral, partly because there is a great deal to see and partly because it offered some welcome respite from the rather enthusiastic French summer temperatures outside. There will therefore follow, much to the delight of my two loyal blog readers, rather more posts about the cathedral than anyone strictly requested. Fortunately, it turns out that when a building has been evolving for the best part of a millennium, it generally manages to provide enough material to justify that level of enthusiasm. And, I might not have mentioned the heat, but it was so hot that I spent at least fifteen minutes fanning myself with the cathedral’s guidebook.
I rather like medieval religious art and I accept that I should probably get out more. There is often such an intensity of devotion behind these works that even a relatively small panel can carry considerable weight. This painting of Saint Agatha, attributed to the Sienese master Pietro Lorenzetti and dated to around 1315, is considered a work of national importance and has even acquired its own Wikipedia page, which is perhaps the modern equivalent of canonisation. Lorenzetti was one of the great painters of medieval Italy, although the history of this particular panel becomes uncertain after it left Siena. It eventually entered the collection of the Musée de Tessé in 1863, having travelled rather further than most fourteenth-century wooden panels could reasonably have expected.
Saint Agatha was one of the most widely venerated saints of the Middle Ages. According to tradition, she was martyred in Sicily during the third century after rejecting the advances of a Roman official and refusing to abandon her Christian faith. Here she holds the palm of martyrdom, while her composed expression contrasts with the deeply unpleasant fate described in her legend. Medieval artists often preferred to emphasise a saint’s spiritual victory rather than dwell on the physical details of their suffering, although it is fair to say that restraint was not always a universal feature of medieval religious imagery. Some artists were perfectly willing to ensure that nobody left the church uncertain about what martyrdom involved and there are some rather, er, bloody versions of the beheading of John the Baptist.
Anyway, I’m not sure if it has been restored, but it’s in decent condition and I thought it rather glistened in the heat of Le Mans.
This is the Ibis Budget located near to the city’s university and it was very keenly priced, just a little above £30 including breakfast. It’s opposite a Carrefour supermarket which pleased me, until I got there and discovered that it was a national holiday. France had once again arranged its calendar without consulting me which is entirely sub-optimal. Anyway, it’s a functional and budget Accor hotel with a shaded and seemingly functional pizza machine at the front. I’m waiting for my friend Richard to get one of those (as in get a pizza, not get an entire pizza vending machine), we nearly did in Germany, as he likes investing in side quests like seeing what pizza from a random kiosk is like.
The staff member at check-in only spoke a little English but with my little French we muddled through. She was keen to tell me that the hotel didn’t have air conditioning and I’d better note that it was exceptionally hot when I was there in mid-July. Anyway, I was very brave and I did mention that, but I think that that was lost in translation. The room was as cold as they could have made it with the shades drawn, but it was still hot.
The breakfast arrangement was basic, but my priority was the option of chilled drinks. They were clearly struggling with the heat to try and keep the food items cold, but they did as good a job as I think they could have done.
Fruit, bread, jam, some pretty inedible cheese, bread, croissant, orange juice and coffee. I wouldn’t note that it was exceptional, but this was a very cheap stay so I can’t say that I was disappointed.
Online feedback for the hotel is relatively high, although it’s evident some guests weren’t surprised and delighted by the lack of air conditioning. The team members were friendly, the room was clean and the breakfast was entirely adequate for the price, but I don’t think Richard would have been very impressed. It’s easy to get to the hotel as it’s right by the end of a tram line and I’d stay here again, although perhaps I might wait for the winter months so that the temperature is a little more optimal.
Although this Portrait de famille, painted around 1805, is attributed to an artist from the circle of Jacques-Louis David rather than to David himself, it reflects the influence of a painter whose political journey was almost as remarkable as his artistic career. A committed revolutionary who was excited and delighted by the French Revolution, he voted for the execution of Louis XVI, became closely associated with Robespierre and produced some of the Revolution’s most iconic images. Following the fall of Robespierre, David himself was imprisoned, yet somehow managed to reinvent his career once again after his release. He’s like Robert Jenrick, but with artistic talent.
His greatest political transformation (I mean David and not Jenrick) came under Napoleon Bonaparte. Rather than painting revolutionary martyrs, David became the official artist of the new Emperor, producing vast works celebrating Napoleon’s rule, including the famous Coronation of Napoleon. This portrait belongs to that period, when David’s influence dominated French painting. Although depicting an apparently ordinary family, its restrained composition, clarity and quiet dignity reflect the ideals that David had done so much to establish. A country that had gone through turmoil needed some form of normality I suppose.
David’s political fortunes changed once more after Napoleon’s defeat in 1815. Regarded as too closely associated with both the Revolution and the Empire, he chose exile in Brussels rather than remain in restored Bourbon France, where he spent the rest of his life. The painting itself is rather lovely as well, it’s a warm and convincing family scene produced in the artistic orbit of a man who had painted revolutionaries, emperors and nearly every political settlement in between.
This article appeared in the Norwich Mercury 200 years ago this week and relates to the court cases that had been heard in Walsingham. I can’t find out anything about Rose Crask, she doesn’t appear in any records that I can find.
As for the details of this case, this was a period of different moral values, although the court cases at the time show that breaches were not uncommon. At the time a woman described or charged as a “lewd woman” was usually being treated as sexually immoral, disorderly or involved in prostitution, although it can relate to any of them.
The label might be applied to a woman found soliciting, keeping company with known prostitutes or criminals, living outside accepted domestic arrangements, behaving indecently in public or repeatedly coming to the attention of parish officers and magistrates. It was a broad and highly moralistic description, reflecting a period when poor and unmarried women were closely policed and could be punished as much for their reputation and way of life as for any clearly identified criminal act. Indeed women in general at this time could be invisible, which has transpired to be the case for finding out anything more about Rose.
This notice was posted in the Norwich Mercury 200 years ago this week and it relates to the newly established turnpike road between Wells-next-the-Sea and Fakenham. This notice relates to a regular meeting of the trust, but the turnpike was new having been created by an Act of Parliament earlier in 1826, and this belonged to the final generation of turnpike trusts established in England. The period often described as ‘turnpike mania’ had largely taken place between the 1750s and the 1770s, while the last completely new English turnpike trusts would be authorised in the 1830s. In other words, Wells was something of a latecomer to a transport revolution that had already transformed much of the country, which perhaps seems fitting for this quieter corner of Norfolk.
The trust was more complicated than its name suggests. Rather than simply improving a single road between Wells and Fakenham, it administered a small network of connected highways. There were two principal routes from Fakenham to Wells, the western road passing through Egmere and the eastern route through Little Walsingham. A further branch ran from Walsingham through Great Snoring to Langor Bridge, where it joined the existing Norwich to Fakenham Turnpike. Early mapping also shows a branch westwards from Fakenham towards Hillington via Sculthorpe, although this appears never to have become an important part of the trust and later largely disappeared from its records. I’ve resisted vanishing completely down this rabbit hole, although I suspect there’s an entire series of blog posts waiting to be written about the trust.
Like every turnpike trust, its powers came from Parliament. The trustees could levy tolls, improve existing highways, acquire land where necessary and borrow money against future toll income. Unlike parish-maintained roads, which depended upon local labour obligations that varied enormously in quality, turnpikes introduced a more centralised and professional system of highway management. The trustees themselves were unpaid local gentlemen, merchants and landowners, but they appointed paid officers including surveyors, clerks and treasurers to administer the roads.
One particularly fascinating aspect of the Wells trust is that its minute books survive from the very first meeting. These reveal that deciding where to place tollgates proved surprisingly contentious. Bryant’s 1826 map shows the initial gates at Wells, Warham, Kettlestone and on the Sculthorpe road approaching Fakenham, broadly reflecting the trustees’ original decisions. However, almost as soon as toll collection began in the spring of 1827, travellers demonstrated an impressive enthusiasm for avoiding payment and that was considered most sub-optimal. By July the trustees were recording “very frequent evasions” and they were busy ordering additional gates across side roads to block alternative routes around the toll bars. Human ingenuity, it would appear, has always been remarkably effective when faced with paying road charges and judging by the repeated attempts to stop people avoiding the tolls, the trustees probably spent rather more time discussing human inventiveness than road engineering.
The arrival of the railways gradually undermined the economic justification for many turnpike trusts across Britain, and Wells was no exception. As traffic patterns changed during the second half of the nineteenth century, the toll system became increasingly difficult to justify. The Wells to Fakenham Turnpike Trust was finally wound up in 1881, ending fifty-five years of independent management. Responsibility for the roads returned to public authorities, while the tollgates disappeared into history.
Today, the milestones remain the easiest evidence that the trust ever existed and I wouldn’t at all be surprised if I decide that I need a friend to drive me to them to have a look. But they tell only a small part of the story. Behind them lay decades of meetings, arguments over gate locations, complaints about toll evasion, financial management and continual maintenance of roads that were vital to the economy of north west Norfolk. I’m fairly sure that these meetings would have been quite vibrant, but a bit of drama is good for the soul.
As an aside, I won’t say any more about the Fleece Inn in Wells, where the turnpike meeting was held, as it was one of the ten pubs that Roy, Jen and I visited a couple of weeks ago and those posts remain in the increasingly well-populated unwritten post blog queue.
Whilst walking around this art gallery visibly overheating in the extreme French climate, I had some slight national pride seeing an artwork by John Constable (1776-1837). Painted in 1821, this is Malvern Hall in Solihull, which is now Solihull Prep School, and there are three versions of this artwork. There’s this one, a similar one in the collections of the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts and a preliminary sketch which is at the Yale Center for British Art in New Haven, Connecticut.
France appreciated Constable far sooner than Britain did and he sold more here in two years than he did in his entire lifetime in the UK. His work was exhibited at the Paris Salon and proved highly influential on a generation of French artists, who admired the freshness of his brushwork and his willingness to paint the landscape as he observed it rather than as convention dictated. The museum label points out that this was the first Constable painting to enter a French public collection, having been acquired in 1864.
Friends tried to get Constable to travel to France and other countries to promote his work, but he noted:
“I would rather be a poor man [in England] than a rich man abroad”.
To be fair, he largely managed to achieve that ambition. As an interesting aside, The Hay Wain spent its early years in France after being exhibited at the Paris Salon, where it caused quite a stir and helped transform Constable’s reputation on the Continent, even if his fellow countrymen were rather slower to appreciate him.
